


Where There Once Was One

by shinkonokokoro



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinkonokokoro/pseuds/shinkonokokoro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking place during the Baskerville case, John has an accident in the labs. It's not a bad accident. But there's a problem, Sherlock's delighted, and John is uncomfortable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this gifset](http://shinkonokokoro.tumblr.com/post/25592968335/random-nexus-itsthesolarsystem-sherlock) from tumblr.

Waiting for Sherlock, John wandered around the facility. There were many interesting things, and many  _strange_ things as well. He trailed his hand over some of the machines, just touching, coming, eventually, to a small room. He knocked on the window. Solid. Hm. Pulled the door open and let himself into the smaller, dimmer room. He was just about to turn around and walk himself back out again when the door clicked shut and a bright light flashed on, debilitating him. It was gone in a minute and he staggered to the door and let himself out. 

John shook his head to refocus his vision, and left the room and all its wonders behind to go and join Sherlock. He'd had enough of this place. Good thing they were going home this afternoon.

~ ~ ~ ~

Picking himself up off the floor, John looked around, finding himself still in the room he'd entered some minutes ago. Ten, by a glance at his watch. Embarrassing, Watson, he chastised as he steadied himself and made sure no one had seen him. He muttered some curses under his breath and quickly left the room to follow Sherlock. 

When he cornered one of the men on the base, he was given a strange look, but pointed in the direction of Sherlock.

Reaching the surface, John was embarrassed to find that he'd been left behind. "Thought you left with him, sir," the boy muttered, eyes dropping away.

John cursed and asked for a lift back to the inn. Only to run into Greg on the way in.

"John!"

"Greg," he nodded, making to move past him.

"Didn't you--"

He paused. "Didn't I what?"

Greg frowned. "Sorry. I thought you left with Sherlock."

"No."

"But Sherlock left."

"He what?!"

"Did you two have a spat?" Greg asked, concern taking over.

"No! How on earth could leave me behind!" John burst out. "Jesus! What  _is_ it with that man!" How was he going to get back?!

"Um. Care for a lift?" Greg asked, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. 

"Yes, thanks," he mumbled. "Let me grab my things..." John hurried to the room he and Sherlock shared to find they were already gone. "Wonderful. That's just..." He stomped back down the stairs. "He's already took them."

The ride back to London was terse and silent. Greg didn't know what to say to him, and John quietly stewed, arms folded across his chest,  _livid_ that he'd been left behind. What sort of behaviour was that? Surely Sherlock couldn't be  _that_ forgetful. It had been quite a while since Sherlock had left John behind. Had he made him mad? John hadn't  _done_ anything! He quietly thanked Greg for dropping him at 221B. 

Stomping up to the door, he dug in his pocket for the key. Which he couldn't find. He cursed and rang Mrs. Hudson's bell, smiling at her apologetically when she answered the door.

"Oh John! I didn't hear you go out."

"Yes, thanks. Sorry. I'll just... I've got to talk to Sherlock."

"Of course, dear; bit of a domestic?" she asked hopefully.

He gave her a half-hearted glare and watched as she puttered back to her flat, muttering something about there 'being no decent telly on tonight.'

He sighed and mounted the stairs, pushing open the door to their flat, 'Sherlock!' dying on his lips as he found himself face to face with Sherlock. And himself. Sherlock and himself, sitting on the sofa, watching telly.

"What..."

Sherlock's gaze darted over him and then the man sitting beside him who was staring at John with a wide-eyed dazed expression of surprise that he felt must be covering his own face as well.

"Who are you?" his other self demanded.

"John Watson!" he protested.

"But I'm--"

"Shut up!" Sherlock interrupted, jumping up. He looked between the two of them, his eyes going wide with wonder and his lips falling slack into a rounded 'oh.' "It must be Christmas..." he breathed, fascination and joy written clearly across his face. Then he clapped his hands and rushed over to John, leaving the other one on the sofa. "Same jacket, same hair, same shirt," he said, touching each. "Same expression--oh this is  _fascinating_! Same, same same! Everything is the same!" Sherlock licked his lips and then grabbed John's wrist.

"What are you--" he protested, tugging slightly. But he'd already spun away and was doing the same to the other John.

"The same!" Sherlock crowed. "Oh, it's brilliant! John, did you touch anything at Baskerville? Anything strange happen?"

He thought a moment and then said, in conjunction with his copy, "I went into a room--" Broke off.

Sherlock laughed and clapped his hands. "Oh this is astonishing! John! When's your birthday!"

They answered again, together, "March 31st." They looked at one another with expressions of distaste that must have matched because Sherlock was laughing and clapping his hands with glee.

"Oh John. Only you," he said, collapsing into his chair, heels thumping against the floor.

"What?" They said in tandem. "Stop it!" Again. They shut their mouths and folded their arms until John dropped his, glaring at his sofa counterpart. 

"John, you got yourself cloned," Sherlock said, grinning widely.

"Cloned?" They say at once.

Sherlock giggled wildly.

It took the Johns a minute, but eventually they dissolved into giggles as well. Even if John's fairly certain they're both jealous of each other. 

"So that's why you left me behind..." John said, once sobered.

"John," Sherlock said seriously. "I didn't know there  _was_ another you."

"Exactly."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "This is--"

"We can't stay like this," the Johns interrupted.

"Why not?" Sherlock pouted. His eyes glazed over a moment.

"There can't be two of us," the Johns said.

"Oh I love how in-tune you are!"

"We're the same person!" they protested. Glared at one another, and then sighed.

"It's a  _fascinating_ experiment!"

"No," they said. "No experiments." Then, "I'm tired."

"Excellent," Sherlock crooned. "My bed's big enough."

"Sorry, _what_?" the Johns exclaimed.

Sherlock's already stood and was half-way to his room.

"But we can't--he's not--we don't know--stop it!"

Sherlock giggled again.

"We don't know who's real!"

"John," Sherlock said with a sly grin. "You're  _both_ real. You both have full memories, correct? You both are John Hamish Watson, born March 31st, 1.7 metres, brother to Harriet Watson, son to Margaret and Gordon Watson."

"Yes."

"Then you're both real, and I'm hardly going to lose the opportunity to sleep with my lover twice at one time."

The Johns looked at one another and then bolted after Sherlock, shedding clothes on the way.

It was, to say the very _very_ least, enjoyable by all. With Sherlock cradled between the two of them, utterly and thoroughly exhausted, the Johns fall off to sleep, sated and happy.

They pile into a rented car the next day and head back to Baskerville to see what can be done. After all, there's only one John Watson, and can remain one John Watson.

Only, that's not how it worked. Baskerville had discovered how to clone human beings, but to merge them back to one person? That was apparently too much to ask. So the two Johns bellowed themselves hoarse and blue in the face, threatening, berating, telling them, 'No! Under no circumstances, will I be your guinea pig!' They listened.

Sherlock watched on in amusement. Until they said that the only way to get rid of a clone was to kill it.

Which then prompted more shouting and threatening and blustering that neither John was an 'it,' and there was no way in  _hell_ that they were going to kill one or the other. (Both considering themselves the original.) But of course, the Johns were now finally allied with one another and no longer pettily jealous. It could have been that last night had eased some of the jealousy. It had been a calculated (perhaps more by his prick than his head) move to assuage some of that. It had worked.

So the three of them went home. The Johns sulked and bantered about names and how they were going to distinguish. 

"One of you leave your hair longer; one of you cut it short--military style," Sherlock suggested, tiring of the whole thing. "Honestly. This is hardly as big of a problem as you're making it out to be."

"Sherlock. There are two of us! How are people going to differentiate. We both refuse to stay in the flat all day."

He waved a hand, bored. "One of you is Hamish, the other is John. Decide amongst yourselves."

One John frowned at him, the other appraised. Sherlock leaned forward. Interesting. Were they beginning to differentiate? 

"Fine," the Johns said finally. Maybe not then. "I'll be Hamish," one said first. 

The other John nodded. "Estranged twin brother?"

Hamish-John shrugged. "Fine."

Sherlock beamed. "Brilliant."

"You're entirely too excited about this," John-John said. 

"Yes, yes," Sherlock replied impatiently. "Now if you're through with this little existential crisis, might we retire to the bedroom and have enthusiastic sex like we did last night?"

The Johns perked up and looked at one another. They shared a sly grin and then efficiently had Sherlock stripped and pinned to the bed, filling him from either end. 

Over time, the Johns  _did_ differentiate. Hamish, with his military cut became bossier and more take-charge. John relaxed, letting Hamish-John take charge of things, giving up the responsibility. John luxuriated in his jumpers while Hamish forewent them and took up blazers and graphic t-shirts.

Harry was hard to get on board, until she heard the entire story. Mycroft came up with official documents, detailing Hamish's existence. Made sly comments about the three of them until Hamish thoroughly snogged Sherlock in front of Mycroft. John was jealous he hadn't done it himself, but had to admit he was impressively proud of his other self. They both answered to John inside the flat, both slept pressed up against Sherlock who tried to smother himself over both of them in his sleep. All in all, with more John, there was less Sherlock could do to get himself into trouble. And with less trouble, Sherlock lived more safely. And with more John, he had more company at home. And when they moved out of London finally, Sherlock would, looking at the morning sunrise, admit that John's (happy) accident, was perhaps one of the best things to happen to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is really a rather separate entity from the first chapter. They're meant to be read adjacently, but certainly do not follow one another like one chapter to the next.   
> They're merely here to be grouped with one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I wouldn't object if anyone arted this...

 The situation escalating with Moriarty, the Johns sometimes sequestered themselves on the sofa, talking in soft murmuring voices. (They'd quickly grown used to one another and worked in tandem easily and admirably—and why shouldn't they? They were one person, still.) Sherlock saw them doing it and pointedly did not pay attention. The Johns both agreed that they should have killed Moriarty at the pool.

Even when Sherlock reminded them that there had been only one of him at that point.

They threw Sherlock an identical scowl and went back to their discussions.

But then there were the attacks and the trial. Moriarty got off scott-free. Hamish disappeared for a night, found napping on the sofa the next morning.

And Sherlock found himself actually frightened to discover that he couldn't deduce a thing. But then there were 'games' to play, and Moriarty clearly wanted to end things. So he spoke to Molly. John stayed with Sherlock while Hamish was at home. Sherlock sent John home to attend to a 'wounded' Mrs. Hudson, and then quickly texted Moriarty to meet him on the roof. Moriarty threatened, Sherlock laughed, Moriarty gave him proof, Sherlock looked over the edge of the building. Christ, he was going to have to do it. Sherlock found his loop-hole, cornered Moriarty.

Then his mobile was ringing in his pocket, and dammit, it was John. He didn't answer.

But then there was a crack of thunder—who was he kidding, that was a gunshot, and Jim was falling towards him, surprise indeed a deliciously satisfying expression on his face. He gaped down at the man, and then up towards the shadows. Hamish exited them and put his gun away, wiping his hands down thoroughly.

“You really are an idiot,” Hamish said fondly. He pulled out his mobile and dialled quickly. “John? Yes. He's safe.”

“No!” Sherlock gasped. “You don't understand!” The snipers!

Hamish just made a shushing face at him and then nodded. “Everything's taken care of on your end? Good. Yes, you can come up. Quick.” He rung off and then looked Sherlock over. “Idiot.”

“There are snipers! They're going to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade!”

“They're taken care of,” Hamish said calmly, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets, stance widening.

Sherlock was in for a scolding. “You... You killed them.”

Hamish nodded.

They were silent a moment and then the door burst open as John stumbled onto the roof, panting. “Alright? We're all alright?”

“Everyone is unharmed, John,” Sherlock said, stepping over Jim's body.

“He was going to do it. He was going to jump,” Hamish said calmly to John.

And that was it. That was the switch to make John look suddenly murderous. “Y-you...!” he said, too full of emotion to articulate anything more.

Hamish turned on him also, face dark and thunderous. “You're a bloody idiot, Sherlock Holmes. You would have jumped, had we not interfered.”

For once in his life, Sherlock felt himself quailing and rushing to defend. “There were snipers trained on you! If they didn't see me jump, they were going to _kill_ you! And I couldn't—” He took a deep breath. “John.” He quickly added, “Hamish...” Since they were becoming two separate people. “I couldn't let them... None of you deserved it.”

John stalked over to him and grabbed his wrist, grip not gentle. “We're going home, Sherlock Holmes, where we are going to have a very long talk about how much of a colossal idiot you are, and why you need to trust me—us.” He looked at Hamish who gave him a nod of solidarity. 

The ride home in the taxi was silent and terse, the Johns on either side of him, arms folded across their chest like diminutive sentries that one would never dare engage.

He did receive a talking-to, one he was forced to endure by only the fact that one John sat on him and the other railed, switching whenever they felt necessary. It was, by effect, mortifying.

But they worked it out, and by the end, Sherlock was boneless on the bed, two very satisfied Johns next to him on his bed. 

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

“And then there was the time he wrapped us up in Semtex!” Hamish railed.

“You do know you don't actually share memories,” Sherlock said, irritated by when they began speaking like a joint person. He could differentiate them easily now. They had different scars. Different personalities. But they insisted on acting like one person sometimes, and it was infuriating. 

“Really?” Hamish said, arching a brow. “Because I'm fairly certain we both remember a consulting detective whining and begging for an orgasm last night, right John?”

“I do remember that,” John replied, grinning widely.

Sherlock flushed and sank lower in his chair. “I hate you both.”

“Liar,” they sing-songed in unison.

He sniffed and turned his nose up, looking away from them both.

“But honestly,” Hamish continued, ignoring Sherlock's blushy sulking. “He was a right bastard.”

“I know,” John said serenely, forever the calmer of the two. 

It was interesting, Sherlock noted, how they deviated. But it was like they always knew, where one pulled ahead, the other would fall back, only to pull ahead in some other fashion. For example, Hamish let his language flow more foully, but John was the one who would work himself into a right lather and scream and curse when Sherlock did something exceptionally stupid (like be ready to throw himself off the roof of Bart's—no matter how much he intended on  _not_ dying. Don't be idiots. He was hardly going to leave John,  _two_ Johns behind and not enjoy that for the rest of his life...). Hamish was the one who was shaping up to be more ruthless, whereas John had quickly become the more adept at charming people into getting what he wanted. It was almost unsettling.

But Sherlock could appreciate the ease with which they worked as a team. Especially when they worked as a team for Sherlock. And...perhaps...when they worked as a team  _on_ Sherlock.

He shook his head, looking at his Johns, one tapping away at the computer; John's proficiency had gone up with Hamish around. The other was stretched across the sofa, reading and dozing alternately. He still thought of them both as John. However clearly he demarcated them vocally. They  _were_ still both John. They were merely separate aspects of John brought to the forefront, others fading to the back. There was so much John, it was endlessly fascinating to watch him interact with himself and separate and overlap.

Sherlock smiled smugly to himself. He honestly was the luckiest man alive.

“You know...” he began absently. “What if I had been the one cloned. I could hav—”

“ _No_ .” The Johns reply was firm and absolute.

“But I cou—”

“No.”

“I'd be abl—”

“ _NO_ .”

Sherlock threw his arms across his chest and sulked. “You take the fun out of everything...”

“Liar,” they replied in tandem, their focus still on their tasks peacefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again... I encourage. SHAMELESS plea/suggestion for art. I want to see this visually... lol :) 
> 
> But really. Thanks for reading and stuff. I always appreciate your comments and stuff. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is shaping up to be the final chapter. At least, this is where the inspiration reaches it's final point, I think. :)  
> I really kind of love these three, though.

 There are three men who live next door. Two of them look exactly alike. The third is tall and thin with a crazy mop of white curls on his head. Dana likes watching them through her window when she's bored and it's too hot, too cold, too rainy, too dull to go outside.

The tall skinny one walks back and forth in front of the window a lot. He's pretty energetic for a man with hair so white. He gestures a lot too. Sometimes the twins follow after him. Dana makes up stories as she watches them. Sometimes the skinny man is in love with one of the other ones, the angry-looking one. The one who's always calm and pleasant doesn't know it, but he's fiercely in love with the skinny one. Or maybe he's in love with the angry one because he's got a severe case of narcissism.

Sometimes the skinny man is just crazy and the two other men are his imaginary friends. There are some days that the men go out, arm-in-arm, and the skinny man seems to continue parading around the little house, talking, gesticulating, and yelling. He really seems quite mad.

Some days, the skinny man can be seen nappying on a chaise out in the back of the house. The other two men are normally nearby, reading or typing away on a laptop. All three of them are very good-looking, Dana notes, though she is only sixteen. It's a stately way they have about them. Maybe they're brothers. The two are obviously twins. But why would three brothers all live together. That certainly makes no sense, that all three of them would not be off married, with lives of their own. She wonders if maybe two of them are married. But then who's the third? Obviously one of the twins. A person can't marry twins... That would be strange.

Dana sighs, dropping her head on her forearms. When she looks back up out the window, the three men are running around. The skinny man seems to be holding something and laughing. Dana giggles to herself. The other two men are running after him, trying to corner him, but—oh! There! He's vaulted over the table and is getting away. They disappear up the stairs. Dana can't see them anymore.

She's back at the window the next day because she's bored. The men don't seem to be at home. She watches for another five minutes and is almost ready to head up to her room and read when she catches sight of the skinny man and the angry man kissing furiously. Hands gripping the sill tight, she leans forwards, mouth agape. She was _right_! The kind man is nowhere to be seen. An affair! They're all sharing the house, and these two are involved in something sordid!

Then the car pulls up out front and the kind man arrives home with some shopping.

Her eyes are glued to the scene. Scandal! Confrontation! This is better than Eastenders! Kind man takes his bags inside. 

Dana shifts at the window, trying to see more. She can imagine it: the bags fall to the floor. Kind man is staring, heartbroken. Then he snaps and begins to rage about the betrayal and stalks forward to—oh yes! There he is—grabbing skinny man, fist going back—wait. What? Kind man is now kissing skinny man. So passionately Dana blushes. That was not... What was going on here? 

Angry man was now pressing himself close to skinny man from behind—oh God! All three of them! 

Dana stumbles away from the window and almost trips over a stack of books in her hurry to draw the drapes. She laughs, short and hysterical, hand clapping over her mouth. 

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“You were going to start without me,” John accuses lazily, his face mushed into Sherlock's ribs.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock says stuffily.

“We were giving you inspiration,” Hamish says over Sherlock's body. His head is tucked under Sherlock's chin, and he's about ready to doze off. “We haven't done it like this in a long time.”

“What, rough? Vigorous? Furiously?” John suggests.

“Stop arguing, you two,” Sherlock mutters, flopping an arm over his eyes. “The girl next door finally figured it out.”

“What?” The Johns say in unison, raising their heads.

Sherlock cracks an eye, irritable. “Of course. You morons assault me right in front of the window where's she's a clear view.”

“She was _watching_ ?” John cries.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “She's been fascinated with why the three of us live together ever since we moved in. Come now. Of course she's going to be fascinated. She's probably locked herself in her room and is texting all of her friends...”

Hamish snickers, tucking his head back where it belongs. “Look at what we've become: fodder for the teenage gossip train...”

“She's scandalised,” Sherlock continues. “But hardly so much that she won't try to peek again.”

“We should get naked out back,” Hamish says.

“I can't believe I have such thoughts,” John moans, rolling to flop an arm over Sherlock's hips.

“You don't; Hamish does.”

John blinks at him. “Are we so different?”

“Of course you are! You've both been different for many many years. Long before we retired, John. You should know that.”

John then blinks at his counterpart and they shrug. “Oh.”

“I should say,” Sherlock says, eyes closing, relaxing back into the bed, “that I'm utterly taken with both of you, and can't imagine not having you.”

The Johns' hearts warm and they settle in for an afternoon nap, muttering softly in unison, “I love you too, Sherlock.”

 

 


End file.
